All my teenage angst was splashed all over the wall in ink, random passages I'd push from the dark corners of my mind from time to time when I didn't have a decent friend to bounce ideas off of. In some ways I always felt every kid thought himself to some degree brilliant, at least with one thing, but inherently wanted someone to share it with. I don't think Mom or Dad understood that feeling very much, most of her older children when they were my age were concerned with growing up, but...me? I was concerned with changing the world, I dreamed most of the time, and wrote most things I'd later have even if through begrudging circumstances, into existence. I wasn't a kid who wanted to change the world and not himself, I saw how people often eclipsed themselves, and how they ended up becoming people they didn't want to, I spent a long time watching and wondering if...they were stolen away, or just not perceptive enough to realize that there were other parts of themselves that needed illuminating in consideration of...